


I will follow

by canardroublard



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, T rating is for a bit of swearing only, Truth Serum, with extremely minimal hurt and lots of comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canardroublard/pseuds/canardroublard
Summary: A truth serum would be so much easier to endure if Napoleon's partners shared the feelings his brain is now telling him to blurt out. But they obviously don't. Right?
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 22
Kudos: 240
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	I will follow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diadema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/gifts).



He doesn't know what they've injected him with. The group who've captured him seem to be a fairly well-funded bunch of mad scientists. They make some comments about testing the new _serum_ , but before they have a chance to do the whole rambling evil villain speech they've all either got shackles around their wrists or bullets through their heads, once Peril and Gaby come to his rescue.

Waverly arrives with a doctor. Napoleon still feels mostly okay, all things considered, but when he tries to wave off the medic Gaby glares at him and tells him to stop being stupid. He snorts in laughter, making her pout adorably at this reaction to her menace. Not that he'd tell her she's adorable. Not if he wants to live.

* * *

"What do you mean, truth serum?" Illya demands of the doctor, who turns a shade paler when he has to crane his neck to look at Illya.

"Well, the name is something of a misnomer," the doctor stammers. "Medical science hasn't quite gotten there yet. What it does do, as best we can tell, is lower inhibitions. Make him more likely to say things he would otherwise repress. But that doesn't mean that what he will say is the truth. It also inhibits memory a bit. He'll be forgetful while it's active, and probably won't remember much afterwards."

"Is it dangerous?" Gaby asks, standing protectively at Napoleon's right shoulder.

"No, not at the dose he's had. It just needs time to wear off. He might have a headache after, but that should be the worst of it."

"How much time?"

"Around, er, six hours."

Napoleon's partners look at each other in dismay.

"Well, fuck me," Napoleon blurts out.

* * *

On the car ride back to the set of flats that's serving as their safehouse, Napoleon begins to really feel the drugs kick in. It's a strange sensation; hazy, floating, everything a bit soft around the edges. If he'd chosen it for himself, it might almost feel good. But his brain just isn't _right_ , and he's beginning to panic a bit about being stuck for six hours with his partners, who'd insisted that they would watch over him.

Napoleon has always had a complicated relationship with honesty. That hasn't changed so far, four months into his time with Gaby and Peril. It's not that he's been _lying_ to them, strictly speaking. But lies of omission, well, he's not innocent of that. But it's not like he's going to just walk up to Illya one day and say 'You are a beautiful, infuriating man, and sometimes I'm not sure if I'd rather fight you or fuck you.' And he definitely, no way in hell, can tell Gaby that he's pretty sure he's liked her at least since she told him his risotto smells like feet. None them are anywhere near ready for that sort of honesty, especially with the attraction between Gaby and Illya that's been painfully obvious ever since Rome.

* * *

"Why are you in my bedroom, Peril? I mean, not that I'm complaining, but you're just so..." Wait, what was he saying? His brain doesn't feel right. "Wait, what was I saying? My brain doesn't feel right."

"I'm here because you got drugged, Cowboy. Drugs are making you forgetful, making you say silly things," Illya says firmly, striding closer to Napoleon's bed.

"Say silly things?" Panic returns to Napoleon as he wrestles with his thoughts, struggling to grip them as they slip away like a bar of soap. "God, Peril, tell me the C.I.A. hasn't done this. I've heard the rumours, I know they're up to some total batshit stuff."

"No, not C.I.A." Illya stands over where Napoleon is sitting in bed.

"Are you _sure_? Sanders would do it, Sanders would try," he says, losing the fight against panic and gritting his teeth in a bid to stop his thoughts from leaking out of his mouth.

Illya hushes him, then clucks like a mother hen. "Just me and Gaby, I promise. No one else. You're safe, Cowboy."

The soothing tone should have Napoleon bristling. He's not a child. But he's _scared_ like a child, and he hears himself whimper something to this effect. Fuck, he hates this. He closes his eyes, unable to look at Illya, praying that he doesn't get asked any questions that he doesn't want to answer.

With a sigh, Illya crouches next to the bed, looking at him with those lovely, impossibly blue eyes. Napoleon has witnessed those eyes, cold and tough as a glacier, used to intimidate. But they're soft now. Almost kind.

"You have pretty eyes," Napoleon hears himself saying. "Fuck, I didn't mean to say that out loud."

Those pretty eyes widen at his words. Illya's mouth tips open ever so slightly in surprise. Napoleon stares at it. God, those lips. He can _feel_ the words fighting to surface, feel himself about to say something that he can't walk back, and he clenches his jaw shut, bites the inside of his cheek.

"You're...it's okay. Doctor said the drugs might make you say things that are not true." He can't quite read Illya's tone. It's strange, overly flat.

"That wasn't not true." Okay, so biting his cheek didn't work. At least it's quite a bit less filthy than the thing he'd been about to blurt out, staring at Peril's mouth. Illya says nothing, still looking at him with a level of curiosity that makes Napoleon want to squirm. So he squirms.

Thankfully, there's a knock at the apartment door. "Ah, that must be Gaby," Illya says, turning to leave. Napoleon, alone for the moment, breathes a sigh of relief. He hasn't said anything too ridiculous yet.

* * *

"I'm bored," Napoleon whines.

"You're supposed to be resting."

"C'mon, Gaby, even you have to admit this is boring. Your bedside manner is even worse than Peril's. Bed manner? In bed manner?" Napoleon looks at Gaby, who is curled up atop the covers on the far side of the bed, thumbing through a _Life_ magazine. She's changed out of her tactical gear from the rescue, must've stopped by her own apartment to take a shower before joining them here. Her hair is loose, beautiful chocolate waves. She smells like strawberries. It must be her shampoo. Or maybe her conditioner? She always smells nice, even when she's been elbows deep in an engine block all day, but this is something special. She's clean and soft and warm. He knows she's warm because firstly, she was wearing a long-sleeved top when she came in but she took it off a few minutes later, and secondly, he can _feel_ the heat radiating off her small body, even with the space between them.

He didn't think he'd said anything aloud, but when he glances over at her again he finds her eyeing him with an expression that he has come to recognize as her trying not to smile.

"How much...what did I just say to you?" he asks, panicking again, sincerely hoping that his mouth didn't get much further than the thoughts about hair products.

"It is the shampoo," she murmurs, biting her lip. "Illya wasn't kidding when he said you were saying...silly things."

"Did he tell you that I said his eyes are pretty? Shit. Fuck."

Gaby snorts at his cursing, tossing the magazine aside and turning to face him more fully. "No, but he was blushing a rather lovely shade of pink."

"I like making him blush."

"You're very good at it, too," Gaby says, grinning at him. She reaches up to adjust her hair, idly combing it out with her fingers, and Napoleon envies her for that careless motion, itches to touch it, to plunge into its softness. He's never concerned himself much with other people's hair, but he's rapidly coming to suspect that Gaby is different. Illya too, actually. Illya has lovely hair. It looks so thick.

Gaby makes a strange noise. "What was that?"

"Um." Napoleon doesn't know. "Nothing?"

Based on the way Gaby stares at him, he is certain that he didn't say nothing. A quick stumble through his memories reveals only an amorphous fog.

"Sorry?" he hedges. "I don't remember. Shit, Gaby, I'm really sorry. Just ignore me, I'm saying whatever shit comes to mind. I'm just so confused."

She glances away, and Napoleon feels himself crumple. God, he fucking _hates_ these drugs. He begins to ramble another apology, half frantic, but Gaby stops him with a look. She pauses, considering him. Then her face twitches in a tiny little half smile as she shuffles towards him.

"Oh, thank God," Napoleon breathes, wincing a little at the words but honestly, he doesn't even care if he's embarrassing himself at this point because Gaby is still _here_ , still with him and, remarkably, moving closer.

"You can make it up to me," Gaby says, face gentle and amused. Honest as he's feeling now, he'd call it _affectionate_. It's breathtaking.

"How? Anything."

She bites her lip again, like she's tucking away that particular offer for a rainy day. He still doesn't care. If she asked him whether he really meant 'anything', he knows that, in this moment, he would say yes.

"Fix my hair. I forgot to comb it after the shower. It's probably all tangled by now." Tucking her legs under herself, Gaby turns her back to him, gazing over her shoulder at him, almost shy. It's an odd expression on her; he's more used to seeing her full of fire, all defensive bluster and sarcasm.

"Okay," he says. He doesn't move. Can't bring himself to reach for her. Even in his addled state, he knows this is a boundary, one which she's never let him cross before now.

"Come on, don't just sit on your ass all day," Gaby retorts. "Make those clever hands of yours useful for once."

"With pleasure," he finds himself purring before he can stop himself. But Gaby snickers, mercifully, making him grin at the back of her head, because for a brief moment, he almost feels like himself again. Then Gaby tosses her head, sending a billowing ripple through her hair, and he remembers the job she's tasked him with.

With a single, careful finger, he burrows under one of the curls tumbling down her back, lifts it away from the others and lets it slip across his hand. Oh God, it's even better than he'd expected. It's silky and thick, still faintly damp from the shower. He takes a sharp breath and is awash in strawberries.

Gaby stills when he repeats the motion.

"Is this—?" he begins to ask.

"It's okay." Gaby cuts off his question, in a wavering tone that has him hesitating again. She turns her head, curls brushing past his hand, and glances at him over her shoulder again. "It's—it's nice," she admits. "It's been a long time since anyone...Keep going."

Napoleon obeys, growing bolder from her restated permission, finally getting the chance to plunge his fingers into her brown waves, almost giddy with joy at the sensation. After a few moments of more playing with her hair than actually fixing it, he gets down to business, working in earnest with his hands to tease out the few little snarls he finds, then combing through her hair with long, steady strokes. He ventures a bit higher, up to her scalp, and she presses into his touch with a tiny sigh of pleasure.

He's babbling a steady stream of nonsense, most of which, as best he can tell, is variations on 'your hair is so beautiful.' She doesn't say anything, but when he leans around slightly, to address a tangle he discovers near her temple, she's smiling gently.

* * *

When Napoleon wakes, he groans. It feels like he got hit by a truck, and then the truck backed up and ran over him a few more times for good measure.

"Good morning, sleepy."

He doesn't bother to open his eyes before returning the greeting. "Morning, Peril. Though I debate your use of the word 'good' rather vigorously. Quick question: what the fuck happened to me?"

"You don't remember?"

His brain seems rusty, gears whining as he tries to get them in motion again. "I was...drugged?"

"Da."

"Truth serum?"

"Da."

With a tremendous amount of effort, he opens his eyes. Illya is sitting on the far side of the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, chess board balanced on his lap.

"Did I say anything...inappropriate?" Please say no, please say no.

Illya snorts, turning to look over, biting his lip as he gazes at Napoleon for the span of a breath. Then he glances away, the tips of his ears turning pink. "You were fine, Cowboy. Don't worry, we kept you safe."

"Thanks, Peril." Napoleon tries to sound biting, but he's not sure he really succeeds, suffused, as he is, with a rush of relief. "Where's Gaby?" he has a vague memory of her being the last person he saw before falling asleep. And some wonderful, half-remembered dreams of running his fingers through her hair.

"Kitchen. Making breakfast."

"And you let her? Please tell me she's just making a fruit salad. Nothing flammable."

"She's not _that_ bad at cooking." Illya pauses, sniffing the air. Napoleon mimics him, catching a faint whiff of what he hopes is just burnt toast. "Ah, maybe I will check on her."

"Good call."

After Illya leaves, Napoleon pulls himself up to seated, scrubbing a weary hand over his face. Then he stares at his hand in confusion before bringing it back to his face and inhaling softly.

His hands smell, ever so slightly, of strawberries. He's not sure why. But he likes it.

* * *

For the next few minutes Napoleon listens to murmured conversation in German from the kitchen, the sound of something shattering followed by Gaby calling out 'we're fine!', and then some more low conversation. He can't pick up their words, but the they sound open and free with each other; almost fond, at times. Despite his own feelings, it makes him glad that those two are beginning to figure things out. Then they push through the bedroom door, carrying trays with coffee for everyone, toast, eggs, cold cuts, and some cheese. It all looks astonishingly edible, considering what Napoleon knows of Gaby's complete disinterest in cooking beyond keeping herself alive.

"You know, I had to feed myself all of these years, don't look so surprised," Gaby teases as she sets a tray in his lap, then, without invitation, settles on the bed next to him, leaning back against the headboard and sticking her arms out, prompting Illya to pass down what must be her breakfast. Illya looks around, but there isn't a chair in the room, so Napoleon pats the duvet on his other side. Without protest Illya walks around to sit, the mattress dipping a little under him, the line of his body long and warm against Napoleon's.

"How are you feeling?" Illya asks.

Napoleon shrugs. "Okay, I guess. Still a little..." he makes a vague gesture near his head, "foggy, bit of a headache, and I don't remember a thing, but could be worse."

"Hang on." Taking from his tray what Napoleon had assumed to be a napkin, Illya grunts at Napoleon, one overlarge hand coming up to encourage him to tip his head back, then placing a cold, damp cloth over his forehead, smoothing his hair away so it doesn't get wet.

Napoleon lets out an unconscious sigh, already feeling some relief, too overwhelmed from the simple tenderness of Illya's actions to respond with words.

Gaby reaches across him to grab the salt shaker from Illya's tray. "Leave that on for fifteen minutes," she declares. "And then you need to eat."

"Keep up your strength," reasons Illya.

"And I worked my ass off making all of this food," is Gaby's reasoning. But she's smiling when she says it. "Now that I have you two, I'm never cooking again unless I have to, so don't get used to this."

She says it so simply, _I have you two_ , like a statement of fact, something obvious and already established. Napoleon does not let himself think about the _never_ in that sentence, about all that it implies, a future of being _part_ of something. Instead he glances over to Illya, forced to squint at him, one-eyed, as the cold compress slips down his face a bit too far. Illya doesn't seem to be at all surprised by Gaby's words. He looks like he, too, has known this for some time. When he notices Napoleon's gaze he snorts, reaching up to gently push the cloth out of his eyes, his thumb lingering on Napoleon's cheek for a moment before he returns to his breakfast.

As Gaby and Peril eat, unrushed, clearly wanting to prolong their breakfasting enough that Napoleon won't have to eat his all alone, they reach back and forth across him, the salt shaker making a few more return trips, Illya needing the jam again, Gaby stealing Illya's napkin when she realizes she forgot her own, all the while resuming a low, steady conversation in what is mostly German, about their best childhood birthdays, which devolves into making plans for Napoleon's in the spring. Illya wants to bake a cake. Gaby points out they might not be able to, depending on where their missions take them. But she concedes that if they can, she'll help.

Once fifteen minutes have passed Gaby tugs the washcloth off his forehead, then prods him in the shoulder and tells him to eat. He takes a piece of toast to his mouth.

"Smells like feet," he teases, earning a wallop on the shoulder from the back of Gaby's hand, even as she snickers.

Illya just looks at them, his forehead crinkling up, then shakes his head in bemusement and returns to his meal.

"Thanks, you guys," Napoleon says, looking down at his own hands, nerves suddenly jangling uncomfortably in his chest. "This was really...thanks."

Humming, Gaby bumps his shoulder with her own. "Of course." He expects her to pull away, but she doesn't, just leaning into his side with a soft noise.

"Always," Illya vows, forever the one of their trio who's a little too sincere, but the bravest of them for his honesty.

So Napoleon relaxes, marvels faintly at how on earth he's managed to end up where he is now, and eats his food which, actually, does not smell one bit like feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Actually, as far as C.I.A. schemes go, truth drugs were one of their more reasonable ones. And to diadema, happy Christmas!


End file.
